Be Yours to Hold It High
by Ayiana2
Summary: Brennan helps Booth deal with the aftermath of leaving his grandfather at the retirement home. Spoilers for The Foot in the Foreclosure


Author's Note: "In Flanders Fields" was written by Canadian Army Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD and first published in an English newspaper on December 8, 1915. The entire text of the poem (including a scan of the original, hand-written version) can be found online.

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He was quiet in the car. Sad quiet, not thinking quiet. She wanted to help, but she didn't know how, so she was quiet, too. When he finally spoke, she jumped.

"Do you mind if we make a stop before I take you back?"

"Not at all." She didn't ask where because it didn't matter.

He flashed her a look of gratitude and guided the car onto the highway. Forty-five minutes later he turned in at Arlington National Cemetery. She didn't know why, but she didn't ask. It was what Booth wanted. That was enough for her.

They parked the car and crossed the road to the walkway that led into the cemetery. Once inside the gates they turned left, away from the crowds of tourists with their cameras and brightly colored shirts. Away from the Tomb of the Unknowns and the Kennedy Memorial and the Custis-Lee Mansion. They walked until they reached section sixty, with its freshly dug graves and pristine headstones. There was a funeral in progress ahead of them. It was a small group, nearly outnumbered by the honor guard, and they stopped to watch. An elderly woman at the graveside dabbed at her eyes. The man beside her, tall and stoop-shouldered, put his arm around her waist and leaned down to say something to her. The woman smiled, nodded, dabbed again.

"Between the crosses, row on row ..."

He spoke so softly that she almost missed it. She looked at him, saw the glint of sunlight in his hair, the tug of worry across his brow, and thought again that she would do anything to help this man. Anything at all.

"In Flanders Fields," she said, recognizing the line.

"Yeah." He stopped. Took in a deep breath, his gaze on the long rows of marble headstones. "I know it's a little hard to believe after grilled cheese sandwiches and Club Jiggle, but Pops fought with the 82nd Airborne back in World War Two. Almost got himself killed saving his best friend's life on Omaha Beach. Most of his unit died that day, but Pops, he got Willie out." He shook his head. "He loves that poem, says it doesn't matter that it was written for a different war."

"To you from failing hands we throw the torch..." She quoted the third stanza line with her eyes on his, certain, somehow, that she understood now why he'd brought her here.

"Be yours to hold it high." He nodded, sighed and started walking again. "When I was in the Rangers, Pops wrote to me three times a week, like clockwork." He gave a faint, rueful smile. "I tried telling him once that when I was on a mission I couldn't get mail, so there was really no point in writing. But there'd always be a pile of letters waiting for me when I got back."

She tried to picture it in her mind, a younger Seeley Booth dressed in battle-gear, with tired eyes and slumped shoulders and another name added to his kill list. She'd once thought that each successful mission must've taken a little bit of his soul with it, but somehow he'd come through his military years relatively unscathed. Now she thought she knew why.

"Some day Pops will be buried here," Booth said. "We'll come to his funeral and they'll play taps and there'll be a flag draped coffin and a twenty-one gun salute. They'll give me his flag at the end because I'm the oldest surviving family member." He stopped and turned to look at her. She'd never seen him so tortured. "I don't know how I'll survive that."

She'd once told him she wished he wouldn't let her hug him when she got scared, and he'd answered that when he got scared he would hug her. He was scared now. It was there in his eyes and in the way his shoulders hunched as he stared at the headstones. He's big and strong, Hank had told her. But he's going to need someone. Everyone needs someone.

She stepped in close and slid her arms around his waist. He stiffened, just for an instant. Then she felt him shudder. His arms came around her and he drew her in tight against his body.

"I'm losing him." His hold on her was almost desperate. "Bit by bit, little by little, I'm losing him. And there's not a damned thing I can do to stop it."

"No," she said, "you can't. Nobody can." When he stiffened and started to pull away she tightened her grip around his waist. "But he's here now. He's here, and he loves you, and you can still play dominoes with him on Sunday nights, just like you always have."

"And when he's gone? What then?"

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "Then I'll be here," she said. "I'll go to the funeral with you, and I'll stand beside you when they hand you the flag, and I'll help you remember how proud he is of you." She smiled, hoping to lighten his mood a little. "And if you ask nicely I might even play dominoes with you on Sunday nights. Though you'll lose, of course."

He stared at her so intently that she began to wonder what he was thinking. Then he nodded, sighed, and pulled her close once more. "Thanks, Bones."

She rested her head against his chest and thought about how good it felt when he held her like this. "Anytime." He smelled of leather and aftershave, and sometimes she thought he was the only truly solid thing in her life. "After all," she said, her hand settling into the hollow between his scapulae, "that's what friends are for, right?"

His arms tightened around her, and she could almost swear she felt him press a kiss against the top of her head.

"Yeah, Bones. That's exactly what friends are for."

She stepped back reluctantly, then smiled when he reached for her hand. He'd never done that before. She laced her fingers with his, enjoying the warm, firm strength of his grip.

As they turned to walk back the way they'd come a lone bugler sounded the opening note of "Taps."


End file.
